


Un-Encrypted Channels

by bellygunnr



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Manhandling, Palmer is pegging miller while he coordinates Fireteam Crimson, Pegging, Praise Kink, Roland uh, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Watches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29458371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: Spartan Miller's and Sarah Palmer's relationship isn't all bad. They get along just fine.
Relationships: Sarah Palmer/Jared Miller
Kudos: 8





	Un-Encrypted Channels

The control room Spartan Miller was permitted to use was closer to an enclosed booth than a room. It was crammed wall to wall with screens, all displaying the helmet footage of active Spartans, the planet's topography, and other geographic and tactical data that he read at a rapid pace and translated into orders for the Fireteam on the ground. He marked a new waypoint on the far end of his visible map and spoke a bit breathlessly into the mic, eyes flicking around to check for slipspace signatures.

"Okay, Crimson. That's where the terminal should be to bring down those Forerunner shields. When you get there, Roland will use one of your suits to hack in," Miller says.

As he speaks, a pair of hands tighten over his belly and he straightens his posture, hissing out a breath between gritted teeth. He rests his hands on the keypad in front of him, drumming his fingers to work out the excess nervous energy building in his core. It was difficult to focus like this. It was--

"Seeing slipspace activity near your location, Crimson. You'll want to..."

His breath hitches. Beneath him, the chair groans, unused to the weight of two partially-armored Spartans. His boots knock against the metal legs as hips rock up against his, pushing deep inside him. 

"You'll want to take this path here-- highlighting it now-- if you want to avoid them. There's some ammo caches, too, I think."

As his mic clicks, hot breath ghosts against his ear. 

"Spartan Miller, ever helpful. What would Crimson do without you?"

He feels his face flush at the whispered words. His hips shift down just as a hand on his stomach slides down to grip under his leg and pry his legs apart-- all the better for her to wrangle him at just the right angle and thrust deeper into him, eliciting a snarled sound. 

"Spartan Miller, is everything alright?" Roland says, suddenly.

His face appears in the corner of the largest screen of the command console, expression one of false concern.

"Everything's fine, Roland," he grits out. "Don't worry about- about me."

"Spartan Miller can handle himself," Commander Palmer says.

His eyes narrow as her avatar comes up onto the display beside Roland's and he has the sinking realization that everything he's been saying is feeding directly into the commline. The mic may have clicked, but he couldn't _actually_ stop transmitting, if only because he wasn't permitted to mute the line. He was under strict orders not to.

"Thank you, Commander," he replies, voice pitching.

She doesn't say anything but she does readjust her grip on him, fingers squeezing whatever soft flesh she can find. Her touch is warm and rough and none too gentle, sure to leave marks the longer this goes on. He feels his breathing grow short as she dips her head down and presses her mouth against his ear, tugging on the lobe with her teeth.

On the display, Crimson is just exiting the narrow tunnel, now equipped with an Incinerator cannon. He smiles to himself-- some Spartans liked the heavy weapons more than others.

"There's already heavy resistance at the waypoint," Miller says. "Use that cannon to good use. Dal- Dalton, can we get some suppo-- _ngh!_ "

The chair cracks ominously as Commander Palmer abruptly starts moving, rocking her hips with as much speed and range of motion she can muster in its confines. Three thrusts has Miller seeing stars and panting openly into the mic. Distantly, he feels something give beneath his fingers. 

"Uh," Dalton's voice says, penetrating the new haze, "I can get you that support. I was thinking... a tank?"

"Tank good," Miller grinds out, just as Palmer stops moving.

He's torn between whining for more and being relieved. She felt _good_ inside him-- or at least the toy did-- and he was hopelessly erect. The need to touch himself was building and he wasn't sure how much longer he could take it. Maybe as long as it took the Pelican to haul in a main battle tank.

"Not bad," Palmer murmurs into his ear. "You do know how to take care of the Spartans."

_Fuck_. He feels his face heat up at the praise, her words pointed and lilting. Of course he did, he was learning from the best. Prickly as she was, the Commander always made sure her Spartans were armed and informed, and if she couldn't do that--

She was on the ground with them.

"Thank you, Comm-ander," Miller gasps. 

He feels more than hears her armor whirring to boost her strength. Big gloved hands grab his frame around the hips and push him bodily up, then relax, letting his own weight slide him back down. His back arches at the sensation of the toy pushing deeper inside him. 

"Spartan Miller, I'm going to access Crimson Four's armor now. Can I have the hotkey, please?" Roland pipes up, casting an orange glow over the room.

Miller grunts, his hand twitching as he reaches over to bring up the necessary panel and tack in the corresponding data. He catches Roland's eye and feels something _hot_ curl inside his belly at the shit-eating grin on the AI's face.

Fuck.

"Miller, can I please have the hotkey to Crimson Four's armor?" Roland asks again.

"Yes," Miller huffs. "Crimson-- Crimson Four, Roland will be using your armor for the terminal. Please stand in-"

Faster than even his honed reflexes can track, Commander Palmer is forcibly readjusting their positions. He's only vaguely aware of the mic picking up the shuffling sounds as she stands them both up and pushes him into the bulk of the control console. 

"What was that?" Roland asks innocently. "Miller, you are okay, aren't you?"

To his relief, Crimson Four _is_ standing in position and the shields are down. Thank God.

"Good job on those shields, Roland. Crimson. I'm highlighting a new path now and... and we're good for an evac point... here!"

It's all he can do to mark the coordinates and call in the pilot for evac. Behind him, Palmer is now thrusting into him at a steady pace, pushing deeper now that her rhythm is stable. He braces himself against the console and tries not to break it, teeth already sinking into his lip to swallow back a moan.

"Another job well done. Mission accomplished," Commander Palmer croons. 

Her fingers grasp his chin and hold his head up. She's taller than him, almost infuriatingly so, and her eyes are dark with hunger.

"What's the ETA on that evac, Dalton?" She suddenly barks into the comm. "Let's get Crimson home."

"Crimson are on board and returning, Commander," Dalton responds matter-of-factly, the picture of a job well done. 

"Good. Palmer out," she says, and if they notice that it's _Miller's_ line that goes dark and not hers, well, no one says anything.

She just wraps her arm around Jared Miller's frame and grasps his straining cock, stroking him, squeezing his dick until he starts fucking her fist with abandon, a ragged cry warbling out of his throat. He comes with a shout that reverberates in the cramped space, come spattering the floor and underside.

**Author's Note:**

> the world i live in is bigger than yours. im in year 3000. im fucking ripped


End file.
